


Any Given Sunday

by ImpishTubist



Series: Winter's Child [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Asexual Relationship, Asexual!Sherlock, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-12
Updated: 2011-12-12
Packaged: 2017-10-27 06:12:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,653
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/292495
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ImpishTubist/pseuds/ImpishTubist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Seven Sundays from the first year of Sherlock and John’s marriage.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Any Given Sunday

**Author's Note:**

> Operates in the [“Winter’s Child”](http://archiveofourown.org/series/12541) ‘verse, but can stand alone.
> 
> Disclaimer: I own nothing.
> 
> Beta: Canon_Is_Relative
> 
> Warnings: Touches on asexuality issues.

_Sunday, May 6_

  
John wakes curled up on his side of the bed, tangled in blankets, his feet sticking out and exposed to the cool air. His head is full of wine and his mouth is full of cotton and every limb aches - probably from the number of times Harry had dragged him out onto the dance floor. And Sarah. And Molly. And...Mike Stamford?

 _Good lord._

He rolls over onto his back, and suppresses a grin. Sherlock is stretched out beside him, which isn’t unusual (not anymore) and he’s stolen the majority of the blankets (also not unusual). But he’s asleep, which _is_ unusual, and his left hand, resting on the pillow next to his head, sports a brand-new band of silver.

Also unusual.

Sherlock is resting on his stomach, and John runs the palm of his hand over the alabaster skin of Sherlock’s shoulder. Sherlock stirs and turns his head to look at John, peering at him out of one eye that’s partially hidden by unkempt dark hair. John stares at him, feeling the smile playing about his own lips, and he takes a moment to drink this in - Sherlock, mussed from sleep. Sherlock, bleary-eyed and only half-awake. Sherlock, fuzzy and drowsy, his usual defenses diminished in his semi-conscious state so that he looks almost _carefree_.

“Hello,” John whispers finally. He’s trying to memorize this - he tries every day to memorize Sherlock the way the man catalogues him in return, because he knows that someday, Sherlock won’t look like this when they wake in the morning. Someday the dark locks will be streaked with gray; someday the face will be lined; someday the skin will be rough to John’s touch.

John wants to remember _now_ , when they are both so alive and vibrant and _brilliant_ that it hurts.

But he’s not Sherlock and never will be, and the memories will fade for him; become blurred or disappear altogether.

So he’s going to drink it in now, consume every part of Sherlock, from forehead to toe to everything in-between. And then he’s going to do it all over again, day after day, until he has it all down and there is nothing left of Sherlock to explore.

He knows that day will never come.

“Hello,” Sherlock murmurs.

John holds up his left hand; after a moment, Sherlock mirrors his gesture. Their rings catch the early morning light, and each stares at the other’s for a moment before looking back at his own.

And then they laugh.

It’s mad and wonderful and ridiculous and they can’t help the frankly undignified giggles that they dissolve into. John’s glad that they’re not anywhere where someone can bear witness to this alarming display of hysteria.

And then Sherlock is bounding out of bed, talking of experiments and cold cases - a wedding gift courtesy of Lestrade, God bless the man - and John is fishing for his trousers and thinking that he’s the luckiest man on Earth - and no, he doesn’t care how cliched that sounds.

 _I am his husband._

 _And he is mine._

\----

 _Sunday, August 19_

  
“Sherlock, where did you put the kettle?”

“It’s on the stove.”

“No, it’s not.”

“Did you check the cupboards?”

“Yeah.”

“And the sink?”

“Of course.”

“The table?”

“Sherlock, I’m standing right here in the kitchen and it is _clearly_ not in plain sight.”

“Then I suggest you check places not in plain sight.”

“Oh, you’re a riot, you are.”

“I suppose it could be in the bathroom?”

“The bathroom?”

“Hmm. Or on the bookshelf - er, no, not there. There’s my old room, of course, but I haven’t used the kettle for any experiments lately.”

 _“Lately?”_

“Well, there was that case for Lestrade last week where I needed to boil rat urine...”

 _“What the fuck, Sherlock?”_

“And there was the experiment I was running earlier this week with the...ah. John, never mind, it’d be best if you didn’t use that kettle, even if it resurfaces. We’ll have to get a new one. Remember that the next time you go out to the shops.”

“...I hate you.”

\-----

 _Sunday, October 14_

  
“John, your left!”

“Got him!”

John levels a hard blow to his would-be attacker, catching him in the sternum and momentarily stunning him - long enough for John to crack a fist across his jaw and send him sprawling. It comes not a moment too soon, because he catches a movement out of the corner of his eye and is able to spin out of the way - helped along by a patch of ice - just as another one of the men they had been pursuing prepares to land a blow across the back of his head with a pipe. John grabs the man’s wrist and twists it as his knee comes up and catches him in the stomach. He goes down hard, and John relieves him of the pipe and lands a blow to his temple - hard enough to knock him unconscious, but not enough to cause permanent damage.

It’s only then that he is able to cast about for Sherlock, and spots him bent over double a few feet away, hands on his knees, gasping for breath. Three men lay at his feet, all unconscious (John hopes). Sherlock straightens suddenly, gulping great lungfuls of air, and his sparkling eyes meet John’s.

“All right?” he calls between gasps.

“All right,” John answers, grinning. “You’re mad, you know. Absolutely mad.”

“Problem?”

John laughs.

“God, no.”

\----

 _Sunday, November 25_

  
Text Message From: Sherlock Holmes  
3:14 AM  
 _The victim was wearing red heels. Why is that important? -SH_

Text Message From: John Watson  
7:00 AM  
 _You do realize that that’s not a decent hour to text people at, right?_

Text Message From: Sherlock Holmes  
7:02 AM  
 _It didn’t wake you, so why would it be a problem? Also, you didn’t answer my question. -SH_

Text Message From: John Watson  
7:05 AM  
 _How the hell am I supposed to know? You’re working on a case thousands of miles away!_

Text Message From: Sherlock Holmes  
7:06 AM  
 _I needed someone to talk to. I work better with an assistant. -SH_

Text Message From: John Watson  
7:07 AM  
 _Thanks._

Text Message From: Sherlock Holmes  
7:08 AM  
 _I’m without my skull and my blogger. It’s infuriating. -SH_

Text Message From: Sherlock Holmes  
7:09 AM  
 _I would much rather be able to ask you that question in person. -SH_

Text Message From: John Watson  
7:20 AM  
 _I miss you, too._

Text Message From: John Watson  
7:23 AM  
 _Come home safe._

Text Message From: Sherlock Holmes  
7:30 AM  
 _Always_. _-SH_

\----

 _Sunday, February 17_

  
They’re on the sofa, and John is half-asleep with his cheek pressed against Sherlock’s shoulder. He’s watching the television through half-lidded eyes (which Sherlock’s verified, otherwise he would have turned the television off ages ago. The show they’re watching is atrocious).

But this is pleasant, he’ll admit. John’s seldom-varying weight is a constant, and his warmth is reassuring. Sherlock can measure each expansion and contraction of his chest by touch, and every once in a while his fingers will stray to John’s wrist, measuring his heartbeat. John knows that he does this, and why, and he’s always allowed it even though Sherlock has determined that it isn’t what _normal_ couples do.

John has never ceased to surprise him, and being reminded that he is allowed these intrusions into John’s space and his life is _exhilarating_.

John lifts his head suddenly and presses his lips to Sherlock’s temple. Sherlock hums; the sensation is is nice, and it _has_ been nearly a full day since last he kissed John. He turns his head and allows the soft lips to meet his. He’s found that kissing itself, which he was rather ambivalent towards at university, is something he’ll seek out willingly with John. His husband enjoys it, and it gives Sherlock a chance to further catalogue him. He runs his tongue over John’s teeth and flicks his bottom lip and, once he’s done committing the various sounds John emits to memory (for they always are slightly different, no matter how many times he repeats these motions), he sucks John’s bottom lip between his teeth, eliciting a low groan.

Best not to let this one go too far, though, and so he slows his pace and allows the kiss to become languid. He finally breaks away and runs his eyes over John’s face, taking in the flush high on his cheekbones and the saliva-slick lips. Sherlock runs his thumb across John’s bottom lip, giving in to the urge to suddenly _touch_ it, and then turns back to the programme they had been neglecting.

But then suddenly there are lips on his neck, teasing a patch of skin just above his collar, and hands are slipping beneath his shirt to rest along his abdomen. Sherlock suppresses a sigh.

“John,” he says, grabbing the man’s wrists to still his movements, “what are you doing?”

“I -” John pulls back, his brow furrowing. “Kissing you?”

“Well, I’d rather you didn’t. I provided sexual release for you two days ago.” Sherlock gets up, suddenly irritable. He _hates_ this, hates how a moment can go from perfectly content to infuriating in less than a second - he hates even more that he can’t ever anticipate when such an event will occur. He scrubs a hand through his hair and adds angrily, “I was simply kissing you. Why does it have to be more than that?”

John sighs. A year ago - two years ago - he would have raged at Sherlock in the same manner. But now he simply appears...tired, Sherlock supposes.

“I’m sorry to have inconvenienced you,” he mutters, standing and stretching - unfurling his limbs like a cat. “I’m going to bed. Late, anyway.”

He leaves Sherlock standing in the living room, bewildered and frustrated. Sherlock wraps his arms around himself, eyes fixing unseeingly on the flickering television programme. The old fear curls unpleasantly around his heart, squeezing, and it slips out of sync for a moment, painful in its stuttering.

He had thought they had got past this years ago; reached an understanding of sorts. There were certain things Sherlock could provide for John; there were others he could not. And they had struck a balance, neither of them asking more than the other was willing to give; neither hoping that the other would change just to suit his needs.

But no. John still doesn’t fully understand. He can’t comprehend an action that doesn’t have expectations attached to it; he can’t comprehend doing something just for the sake of doing it. Everything has to lead to something else, and he sees motives where Sherlock notices none.

 _Why did it always have to lead to_ more?

\----

 _Sunday, April 7_

  
The light in the kitchen buzzes.

Sherlock’s never noticed that before.

“Hold still,” John murmurs for the third time in fifteen minutes. Sherlock grimaces. “Shut your eyes if you need to. Might help.”

“I am _fine,_ ” Sherlock insists, but then the needle enters his field of vision again and his lip curls. He fights the urge to shrink away, and John sighs.

“Clearly, you’re not.” John puts the needle aside and picks up the bloodied towel again, pressing it to the gash across Sherlock’s temple. Sherlock can feel blood leaking into his ear and down his neck, and knows his hair is already matted with the sticky substance. “I know you aren’t fond of needles, but if I don’t patch this up here then you’re going to have to go to A&E.”

“I am _trying,_ John,” Sherlock says irritably. “I don’t do this simply to inconvenience you.”

“I know.” John’s voice is gentle; patient. He cleans the wound as best as he’s able, and then brushes his thumbs over Sherlock’s eyes, forcing the lids to close reflexively. “Just relax, and keep your eyes closed. I’ll talk you through it, if you like.”

Sherlock clamps his eyes shut as soon as John’s fingers disappear. He tries not to imagine what the doctor is doing - _movement to my left; that’s where the medical kit is. Likely reaching for the needle again._ \- and instead mutters, “Take me through it.”

“Right,” John says, briskly. “I’m picking up the towel again, and I’m going to try to clear away some of the blood. I need to be able to see what I’m doing. Then...”

John walks him through it, every step of the way, warning him before the needle pricks his skin and describing every movement so Sherlock’s mind doesn’t need to conjure up the dreadful images for himself.

“All done,” John whispers finally, pressing his lips to Sherlock’s forehead, ignoring the grime and sweat. Sherlock opens his eyes. The medical kit has been packed away; the needle is gone.

“Thank you,” he murmurs, and slides off the table. John squeezes his hand.

“Anytime.”

\----

 _Sunday, May 5_

  
“Sorry to have called you out on such a big day,” is the first thing out of Lestrade’s mouth when Sherlock arrives at the crime scene that morning.

“It’s no matter. We don’t have plans until later tonight,” Sherlock says, snapping on a pair of gloves and kneeling by the body. He doesn’t even bother to tell Anderson to leave, but the forensics expert does it anyway.

“You do?” Lestrade sounds surprised. Sherlock glances up at him for a brief moment.

“You sound as though this is unexpected. Isn’t it customary to mark an anniversary - especially a first one?”

“Well, yeah, but I never expected _you_ to follow such social conventions. I was just...being nice.”

“It’s good to know, Inspector,” Sherlock says dryly, getting to his feet and peeling off the gloves, “that I am still capable of surprising you. Now, where are those photographs?”

  
“You’re very quiet,” John observes later that night, after the remains of their meal have been cleared away. They’re lingering in the kitchen, sharing a companionable silence. John is leaning against the counter, cradling a mug of tea in his hands. Sherlock stands next to him, hands tucked into his pockets. Their shoulders brush; eventually John adjusts his stance and leans into his husband.

“We’ve been married a year,” Sherlock says finally. John chuckles.

“Yes, we have.” There is a pause; John is thinking. “Does that...surprise you?”

“It does,” Sherlock admits finally. John turns curious eyes on him.

“Why?”

“I had thought,” Sherlock says, “that perhaps - no, I had _feared_ that perhaps I would grow tired of you, John. Tired of this. It’s....been a great concern of mine that someday I might learn all there is to know about you, and have nothing else to catalogue. My mind does not do well when it encounters tedium, as you well know, and for _you_ to become the thing that has become boring - that thought was intolerable.”

He expects John’s face to fall; for him to look hurt. But then John surprises him - which in itself shouldn’t be a surprise, as John does it so often, and yet he feels the need to note it anyway - and smiles.

“And what have you found?” he asks softly.

Sherlock licks dry lips. “I believe...I would need an entire lifetime to study you. And it still wouldn’t be enough. I don’t...I don’t think there could ever be enough time for all I want to know.”

“Perhaps not,” John agrees. “Does that frighten you?”

Sherlock nods; yes, it does. It frightens him almost as much as the idea of growing bored with John had. It’s an unbearable thought, not ever knowing all that he wants to about John. It’s terrifying, the thought that someday he will die with questions unanswered.

Or that John might, before Sherlock is finished.

John holds out his hand; Sherlock takes it after a moment.

“Then I suggest,” John says in a low voice, “that we make use of the time we have, yeah? And not waste a _second_.”  
 


End file.
